


if you took the time to notice me

by akamine_chan



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-19
Updated: 2011-08-19
Packaged: 2017-10-22 19:49:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akamine_chan/pseuds/akamine_chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mikey has a type.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if you took the time to notice me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [omens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/omens/gifts).



> Written for my [prompt-a-thon](http://akamine-chan.dreamwidth.org/194271.html).
> 
> Prompt of _something about stalking/obsessiveness?? Pete? Or Joe Dick! Or Ray! (I meant Kowalski, but now I'm thinking Toro because.. that's different.) I'm not fussed about pairings._
> 
> I thought that Ray Kowalski was a little easy for the prompt, so I went with Ray Toro instead. Which just goes to show you how fucked up I really am.
> 
> Title from _Cubicles_ by My Chemical Romance
> 
> Much thanks to Andeincascade for the helpful beta work.

Mikey had a type.

For as long as Ray had watched him, Mikey had a type.

Small. Dark. Tattooed.

When they were barely out of high school, Ray watched Mikey repeatedly hook up with scene kids, boys _and_ girls. It didn't seem to matter much to Mikey. They just had to be dark and small, the more tattoos the better.

Ray watched, time and time again, as Mikey pushed his new friend into a darkened corner at a party or into a skanky bathroom stall at questionable venues. Tattooed arms wrapped around Mikey's neck, fingers threaded through his hair, kissing and necking and making out. Sometimes Ray would stand close enough to hear the soft gasps and moans.

He watched tattooed hands sneak into Mikey's back pockets or worse, slide up under the back of his ratty Iron Maiden shirt, fingers digging in, holding tight. Ray _watched_ , the sweat beading on his upper lip as Mikey rubbed his cock against someone dark and small and tattooed, hips moving in time with the music. He wanted Mikey to touch _him_ like that.

After the parties and the shows, when he drank enough cheap, free beer to feel unsteady, he went home and fell into bed, thinking of Mikey and tattooed bodies. It wasn't ever long before Ray shamefully grabbed his cock and jerked off, biting his lip to keep from calling Mikey's name when he came.

It wasn't hard to follow Mikey—they were friends, they were in a band together and Ray never needed an excuse to be nearby. He stayed close enough to hear the whispered, heated words, the erotic litany of what Mikey wanted, opened up and bent over and spread out, sucked down and swallowed whole.

Scene kids evolved over time into men and women in bars as they hit the road and nothing had really changed, except everyone was a little older. And maybe a little drunker. But still. Small. Dark. Tattooed. Ray watched, felt that familiar twist of shame as he jerked off to thoughts of Mikey's pale skin, silky hair and the tattooed hands of strangers touching Mikey. It was always Mikey.

Frank was somewhat problematic.

He was _exactly_ Mikey's type, pocket-sized with tattoos spilling down his arms, dark-eyed and intense. But— But he was part of the _band_ which meant _family_.

Sometimes Ray caught Mikey watching Frank. Frank, with his energy and his potential. Ray spent countless hours in his bunk imagining the two of them together, light against dark, Frank's easy grin and Mikey's soft smile.

Watching Frank only increased his confusion. Because Frank was a touchy kind of guy, loved cuddles and hugs and had no real concept of personal space. He was always putting his hands on Mikey and Ray couldn't help but _wonder_.

The jealousy coiled in his belly and made him come that much harder.

Pete Wentz crashed into Mikey's life, as if Ray had needed proof of Mikey's type. He watched as they giggled their way through the summer, wrecking havoc with their happiness, mischievous as little kids on a sugar bender. Practical jokes and nights spent talking in crowded bunks, soft moans hastily bitten back. Ray watched.

On the last day of the tour, Pete caught him watching. Pete looked at him over Mikey's shoulder, face expressionless, eyes too knowing. He watched Ray as he hugged Mikey close, whispering promises of forever into his ear before turning away.

Ray spent the next few months trying to keep Mikey together, picking up the pieces, being the kind of friend that let you cry on their shoulder about how love had done you wrong. The kind of friend that poured you back into your bunk when you couldn't walk anymore, that let you drunkenly sing love songs at four in the morning with nothing more than a wince.

He stayed close, because Mikey needed him. He tried not to think about it too much, hoped that Mikey never noticed how much Ray _wanted_ , because something was better than nothing and at least they were friends. Good friends.

As Mikey healed, something tight inside Ray's chest eased a little, only to knot up worse than before when Mikey started hooking up again, a succession of faces and names. Ray spent too much time in his bunk, touching himself and biting into a pillow to muffle his sounds.

He watched, and wished that he was something he wasn't. Small and dark and—fuck it all.

-fin- 


End file.
